


The Ties that Bind

by nautilicious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Beating, Dubious Consent, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Mary is not a good person in this story, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-His Last Vow, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He takes a breath, but hell, he trusts Sherlock more than he trusts Mary right now, and what’s wrong with a little confession between awkwardly naked and trussed flatmates?</i><br/>Set during the six month mystery period where no-one knows where John lived or what happened between the three of them. Sherlock wants it; John doesn't know he wants it; Mary makes it happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ties that Bind

**Author's Note:**

> I owe thanks to [Michi](http://traumachu.tumblr.com/) and [Archia](http://archiaart.tumblr.com/) for their thoughtful discussions of power/rape fantasies, fanworks, and feminism. I also owe [Azriona](http://azriona.tumblr.com%22) and [Ivyblossom](http://ivyblossom.tumblr.com) for their detailed and intelligent metas on Mary’s character. None of them, however, should be held accountable for the work their conversations inspired.
> 
> This is NOT how to do consensual BDSM, not how to treat your partners, and not how to have a healthy relationship. This is not a realistic description of rape. This is a dub/non-con fantasy. It might be triggering. Take care of yourself.

John comes to awareness with a sour taste in his mouth. He blinks, his vision a bit foggy, and notices a number of things at once: he’s naked; his arms are pulled behind him and bound to a chair; so are his ankles; he’s in the 221B sitting room; and Mary sits directly in front of him, a snub-nosed gun on her lap and a sheathed knife at her hip.

 _What_ — he thinks fuzzily, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Where is Sherlock?”

Mary nods to John’s left, and he sees Sherlock naked, suspended from the ceiling by red ropes crossed over his chest and down one leg. He doesn’t seem to be conscious.

He swallows. “Who are you working for?”

Mary snorts. “My danger-loving darling, while perhaps the weapons push this scene towards the Evil Rogue Assassin interpretation, it’s really just to show you that I’m serious. Sherlock knows that I don’t bluff, don’t you?”

John turns his head and sees Sherlock awake, his eyes focused on Mary. John’s gaze drops to the skin below Sherlock’s right nipple, still stained an angry red.

“Reminding him that you shot me will not help,” Sherlock tells her.

Mary shrugs. “We haven’t spoken in months. John doesn’t trust me and you watch my every move. I’ve told you that I put it behind me, but -- well.” She breathes sharply through her nose. “I can’t seem to make my situation come right, but I’m tired of yours being a mess. We’re going to get it sorted. Now.”

“Situation?” John asks.

Mary blinks at him, and Sherlock huffs his breath out with an annoyed sound.

“What?” John asks.

“Deduce a moment, John,” Sherlock says. “Your wife has removed our clothing and tied us in suggestive poses. She obviously believes there is something sexual between us to address.”

John looks again and sees the artistry of it. More than merely efficiently restrained, Sherlock looks like an erotic sculpture. The red ropes bring out the creamy ivory of his skin, emphasize the musculature against which they rest, and draw attention to his groin. John blushes. This is a far cry from the odd occasion he’s seen Sherlock shirtless, and he feels embarrassed for both of them.

He turns to Mary, scowling. “I’m. Not. Gay.”

Mary smiles smugly and he grinds his teeth a bit. “I know, love,” she says. “Don’t think I didn’t appreciate those long nights of you eating me out. I rather miss them.” Her lips press together. “But you’re gay for Sherlock Holmes.”

“No, really, I’m not,” he says.

She just keeps smiling. John takes a breath, but hell, he trusts Sherlock more than he trusts Mary right now, and what’s wrong with a little confession between awkwardly naked and trussed flatmates?

“You know that I tried it once and that I didn’t like it.”

“Yes, I know.” Mary says. “You didn’t like it because the brain is the biggest sex organ and you think you’re straight. Nerve endings are agnostic. It shouldn’t matter who's pleasuring you; biologically, your nerves fire the same.”

John shakes his head. “I can’t believe we’re having this argument, but no. I didn’t know if it would matter. It did.”

She shrugs. “You’re not into blokes. I get it. But you are into Sherlock. Gender doesn’t matter with _him_. You love him. You’re just don’t know how to think of yourself with a man.”

John clenches his jaw again. “I’m telling you that I didn’t like it.”

Mary tilts her head to the side, her grin going a bit impish. “Maybe he wasn’t any good.” She leans forward, “And you told me yourself you’ve always wondered about Sherlock.”

Sherlock clears his throat.

“As for you,” Mary begins, but Sherlock interrupts.

“I’m not interested.”

“Christ, you two.” She shakes her head, then points at Sherlock. “Maybe you’re not interested in sex in general, but you’re interested in John Watson. It’s all over your face when you look at him. We attended the same wedding, you and I, and I saw your face. Then and loads of other times besides.” She shifts her weight, rubbing her belly absently. “Honestly, Sherlock. For a few moments there I lost track of who was marrying whom.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“Look," John says. “I’d like to believe that you’re trying to help, but this is crazy!”

John has never seen the expression on Mary’s face before. He suspects Sherlock has. Her eyes have gone cool, her expression determined.

“I’ve already lost you, John,” she says. “Nothing left to lose now, but maybe everything to gain. All you have to do is understand what everyone else already knows, and then maybe we can all live happily ever after.” She stands, faces Sherlock, and raises the gun. John pulls against the ropes, muscles tense.

“Mary, I swear to God—“

“Shut up,” she says without turning. John shuts up. The ropes bite into his skin but do not shift.

“I’m going to swing you into position, Sherlock, and you’re not going to struggle. You will not try to kick me when I come near you. You will not try to escape. You’ll do what I say or I will shoot you again. Do you understand?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but she shakes her head sharply. “No talking. Only moans.”

Sherlock shivers, then nods. Mary walks behind him, gun steady. John tries not to remember how Sherlock looked bleeding out on Magnussen’s floor. Tries to believe that he won’t be seeing that again in the next few moments. Mary swings Sherlock towards John and then tilts him forward, one hand on his ankle and the other on the gun. John hears Sherlock’s breathing shift as he adjusts to the pressure of the ropes across his chest, and then Sherlock’s head is in John’s lap.

“All right, Sherlock. I know you’ll need a bit to absorb the data. I’m going to count to ten, and then you’re going to put John’s cock in your mouth.”

John pulls at the ropes again. His cock is soft, even with the tickling warmth of Sherlock’s breath brushing it. He feels queasy. Mary counts evenly, a second between each number. John stares at Sherlock’s curls, wondering what he’s thinking. If he has a plan. Surely Sherlock has a plan.

“Ten,” Mary says, and Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He draws in John’s cock fully. Sherlock’s mouth is hotter than John expected, and John feels his breath catch despite himself. Sherlock doesn’t move, just holds John’s cock in his mouth. John clenches his fists behind his back. Bad enough to be forced at gunpoint, but does Sherlock even like sex? Does he like men? Is this his first time? How many layers of awful is this?

“Sherlock, do you need instruction?” Mary asks. Sherlock slowly shakes his head and John blinks. _Well_ , he thinks. He can’t decide if that makes it better or worse, then realizes he’s been made complicit in the rape of his best friend. It’s all “worse.”

“Then get on with it,” she says.

Sherlock’s tongue begins to swirl, stroking under and around while slowly increasing the suction. The blood rushes to John’s groin despite himself. He grinds his teeth and tries to will away his growing erection but Sherlock pulls his head back a bit and begins to suck John in earnest. Sherlock’s head bobs awkwardly, hands bound behind his back. Mary’s grip stabilizes him. She uses her leverage to press him farther into John’s groin, and Sherlock makes a choked noise that sounds almost like a whimper.

“Deeper. Yes. Look at you,” Mary says. “I knew you’d like being tied up, Sherlock. I’ve got a lovely view from here. I can see how hard you are. You’ve wanted John’s cock down your throat such a long time. You can barely breathe around it and you don’t care. Lovely boy.”

Sherlock shudders, his mouth tightening around John’s cock. John’s senses, sharpened by adrenaline and combat readiness, saturate him with input. John can hear the sloppy, wet noises of Sherlock’s lips sliding around him. For just a moment he imagines what it must look like: Sherlock’s mouth stretched wide, being forced to take John’s cock all the way down his throat. The image makes his pulse race, and he flushes with anger and embarrassment.

Mary swings Sherlock gently back and forth and John bites back a groan. He’s hit the back of Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock makes that sound again, the one that John desperately wishes that he understood. He digs his nails into the soft flesh of his hand, struggling not to thrust, not to force Sherlock to make that sound. He focuses on Mary’s hand, her small fingers pressed around Sherlock’s ankle. Her nails are pink. He looks at the ceiling; there’s a mildewed spot. He looks at the gun. Anything to stop the rising tide in his body.

“That’s it,” Mary says. “You’re taking it all, Sherlock, and John loves it. It’s all he can do not to fuck your face until your throat is raw.”

John can feel the orgasm coming, inexorable, and he can’t bear it. “No,” he says. “I—hngh—“ he moans, unable to stifle it, as Sherlock does something clever with his tongue.

Mary’s face is expressionless. “We could stop,” she says. “But you don’t want to.”

John is so close to orgasm that he can barely speak.

“Sherlock,” he gasps, and to his shock, Sherlock moans in an unmistakeable sound of pleasure. John throws his head back, his body at a fever pitch. “I— Mary, he might choke— Oh, God, Sherlock!”

Mary jerks Sherlock back sharply. His teeth graze John’s cock as it pops out of his mouth. The pain pulls John back from the brink, though his cock is harder than he’s ever seen it, purpleish-red and slick from Sherlock’s spit. Sherlock makes a pained noise. John looks up to see that Mary has flipped Sherlock upright. He is staring between John’s legs. His mouth is red, his lips swollen and wet. Sherlock licks them and John twitches.

Mary wraps her hand around Sherlock’s cock. He is fully erect. “You see, John? Nerve endings don’t explain this. Just his glorious mind, and his unfulfilled desire.” She strokes Sherlock’s shaft once, up and down. Sherlock closes his eyes but stays silent. Mary nods and takes her hand away.

“He doesn’t want my touch,” she says. “He wants you. He’s desperate for it.” Her smile is devilish. “A little test, perhaps.”

She leans Sherlock forward again, angled upwards so that John can see part of his face. Sherlock’s mouth brushes John’s cock, his lips parting. Mary holds him just out of reach, and John can see Sherlock straining towards him. “You can smell him, can’t you, Sherlock? His sweat, his pre-come. You know that smell. You know how it tastes. You want more.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and his tongue darts out, licks John’s cock. John’s breath hitches, his heart hammering.

“Oh, you bad boy,” Mary says. She sounds delighted. “I didn’t tell you to do that. I wasn’t sure I was going to play, but you need to be punished. You understand that, don’t you?”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock hangs his head. It’s not a nod, but not a no. Mary taps the gun barrel against her lips, humming quietly. It’s the little song she hums when she can’t decide what to order from the menu, and John feels a pang in his chest at its familiarity. Then she steps out of the range of Sherlock’s legs and sets the gun aside. John flexes his arms and legs, alert for a chance to escape, but his bonds are snug and Sherlock is suspended in the air. There’s nothing to be done.

Mary measures a length of red rope, cuts it, and comes behind Sherlock. He’s still leaned forward, arse in the air, his breath stuttering against John’s cock.

“Here are the rules,” Mary says. “You will take your punishment. You will suck John’s cock if you can reach it. You will not make him come. Nor will you come yourself. Understood?”

Sherlock nods and Mary begins. She starts easy, the motion of her arms light but controlled. John hears the rope strike Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock jerks. He’s pressed forward by the blow and his mouth closes around John’s cock.

John sees only the rope rising and falling, Mary’s strokes slowly increasing in intensity. Sherlock struggles against his bonds with each stroke. The swing nearly pulls him away, but he’s anchored himself on John’s body. He sucks firmly but erratically. It still feels uncomfortably good but John is thinking about the time he and Mary tried spanking in the bedroom.

She’d suggested it shyly, claiming she’d always been curious but never trusted anyone else to try it. Neither had he. He’d enjoyed her rounded flesh under his hand, her breathy moans — but felt uncomfortable with his enjoyment. It went against his nature to strike someone under his protection. His mouth twists unhappily: Mary does not need his protection, and she obviously knows more about spanking than she let on. Sherlock’s mouth slips off and John suspects it’s because his erection has flagged.

Mary notices. “Not enjoying the spectacle?” she asks.

“I thought you’d never done that before,” John says.

“I hadn’t,” she says, not missing a stroke. “That was true.”

“And this?” he asks. “You’ve obviously done this before.”

“Why so surprised?” She pauses to swish the rope to either side of Sherlock. He shivers as it passes his body. “This is in my file.”

“I haven’t read it yet,” John admits.

Mary looks surprised. She swishes the rope a few more times, teasing, and then it whistles through the air. It lands with a resounding smack. Sherlock cries out and it’s like nothing John has ever heard, pain and pleasure and desperation.

“I think that’s sufficient,” Mary says. She flips Sherlock upright. “Behold.”

Sherlock looks wrecked, his hair damp with sweat and his face flushed. His cock looks uncomfortably hard, swollen with blood and slick with pre-come. John thinks he can actually see Sherlock’s pulse thrumming. John understands the science of this: Sherlock’s system has flooded with endorphins. He wonders if that great brain has quieted.

“High as a kite,” Mary confirms. “I’d imagine that there’s only static in there just now.” She strokes Sherlock’s cock and he moans, thrusts upwards into her hand. “He’ll take my touch now. He knows I’ll take good care of him. And that’s why I’m giving him to you. Because he wants it so very much.”

Mary walks over to John, leans to murmur in his ear. This close, he can smell her sweat, and underneath that, the musk of her body. She’s turned on. John closes his eyes, unable to resist breathing in. That smell used to mean home, and safety, and pleasure.

“Now it’s your turn,” she says. “You’re going to fuck him.”

John recoils, shaking his head. “He didn’t choose this.”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t make me get my gun. He chose this years ago.” She reaches behind John, does something that tightens the ropes across his chest. She unties his ankles but before he can think of how to react she’s got him suspended in the air like Sherlock. She deftly ties the rope down one leg and adjusts it until John’s on tiptoe, one leg immobile and the other holding him upright.

“You’re going to fuck him and he’s going to love it. Ask him yourself.”

John looks at Sherlock. His eyes are closed and his breathing shallow, but his cock is still rock-hard. “Sherlock?” John asks.

Sherlock opens his eyes. His grey-green gaze is bleak.

“Do you— I won’t— only if.” John swallows. “If you want it. It’s ok if you want it.”

Sherlock is silent, and John wishes he could touch him. Wants to pull him close and press their foreheads together. “I don’t know what to do, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallows. His eyes are wide, dark with what looks like equal measures longing and sadness. John has only seen this look on Sherlock’s face once before, on the dance floor at his wedding. They gaze at each other, uncertain, when Mary speaks.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Just kiss already!” She pushes John forward. Their chests bump together and Mary holds him there, her hand on his back. John feels the press of the ropes against him but all he can think of is the warmth radiating from Sherlock’s skin. He doesn’t know who moves first but then Sherlock is groaning softly against his mouth while John’s tongue strokes against his. A shudder runs down Sherlock’s back. John wants to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, to pull him closer. It’s awkward and unpracticed and confusing, and quite possibly the most passionate kiss John has ever experienced. The ropes sway them off balance and Mary lets them drift apart.

They hang together, swinging gently. Sherlock breathes unevenly, the look in his eyes both intense and uncertain, and unmistakably that of someone hopelessly in love. John has a strange feeling blossoming in his chest. It aches.

“Do you see it now?” Mary asks. Her voice is soft, unexpectedly kind. “All that time, all those couple jokes, and you’ve never known the truth of it.”

John hates her a bit. His mouth curves into his feral smile, rage and violence checked only by the ropes holding him back. He sees Mary see it. All gentleness vanishes from her expression.

“Right. More of that later, I suspect.” She shifts her shoulders. “Now. Sherlock wants to be fucked and John wants to make him happy, so off we go.” She tips Sherlock forward, turning him parallel to John. Sherlock’s buttocks are flushed pink and striped with welts.

“Can’t untie John’s hands, but we’ve got to get you ready, don’t we, Sherlock? Guess I’ll have to do that myself. I’m going to stretch you open so that you can take John’s cock. Can you handle that?”

John tenses but Sherlock nods, his eyes squeezed shut.

Mary moves her chair and sits with Sherlock’s arse in front of her. She strokes a few fingers behind his balls and Sherlock shivers. “That’s my good boy,” she murmurs. Then she wrenches Sherlock’s arsecheeks open and thrusts her face between them. John’s eyes widen, but there’s no question about what she’s doing. He can hear her tongue squelching against Sherlock’s skin, rough and messy. And Sherlock _whines_. The sound makes John feel lightheaded. John can see Mary’s hands pressing into Sherlock’s hips as she eats him out. Then she pulls back, retrieves a bottle from her pocket, and begins to slide her fingers against Sherlock. John wishes he could see all of Sherlock’s face.

Mary takes her time, one hand working Sherlock open while the other pinches, scratches or slaps the rising welts on his skin. Sherlock undulates in the ropes, though John is uncertain whether it’s to get closer to the fingers in his arse or to escape the torture of the other hand. All the while, Sherlock pants and whimpers, his head thrashing from side to side.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, love. You’re so hungry. So lonely. You’ve yearned for him so long. Not to be empty. To have him close. To be filled with him. He’s big, you know, you’ll take him and then he’ll be a part of you, he’ll be yours too.”

Mary turns to John. “He’s on the edge, pain and pleasure mixing together. He’s ready to fly for you. Do you see?”

John does see. He never could have imagined Sherlock sweating and trembling like this, flayed open by sensation, his quicksilver mind so obviously superseded by the sensual and the erotic. The power of it warms John’s belly. John wants to comfort Sherlock, to hold him close. And yet, he can’t deny that he’s fascinated to see Sherlock cracked open and at the mercy of his body. Part of him wants to see how far Sherlock can go.

Mary’s eyes are bright as she looks at John. “You can’t do this for him. He needs this, and you can’t give it to him. But I can. I can do this for all of us.” Mary pulls her fingers from Sherlock’s body and he makes a distressed, pleading noise. She turns Sherlock’s ropes to bring his arse towards John. She wraps her slick fingers around John’s cock, and his body remembers those small, deft fingers, responds. She strokes him to full hardness while smearing him with lube. “You’d kill for him; surely you can fuck for him.”

She lowers John to the floor so that he can stand on both feet and presses John forward slowly. She eases him into Sherlock. John exhales harshly as the sensations overwhelm him: Mary’s scent, musky with desire; the slick, tight heat of Sherlock’s body; the quavering sound Sherlock makes when John is sheathed to the hilt.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, his voice deep and raw with want. His arse clenches, squeezes down on John’s cock, and John groans, long and low.

“Sherlock,” he says. “Tell me you want this.”

“John,” Sherlock says. Mary adjusts the ropes so that John can bend his knees. He strokes in and out, watching himself disappear between the curves of Sherlock’s firm, welted arse. The swing of the ropes adds a bit of a snap to his thrusts and Sherlock writhes as their bodies slap together. Sherlock says his name over and over, voice rising in pitch. It drives John wild.

John sweats and grunts with effort, wanting to wring every gasp, every moan of pleasure from Sherlock. He drives into him with sharp, desperate thrusts and Sherlock keens at every stroke. Heat coalesces in John's pelvis, sets his nerves alight. His body is screaming with the need to come.

“Sherlock,” he pants. “Say yes. Please. Say yes.”

“John,” Sherlock keens desperately. “Yes. John. Yes. Yes.”

Mary fists her hand in Sherlock’s hair and yanks his head back. “Come for him, Sherlock. Come for John.” Sherlock makes an anguished cry, bucking hard against the ropes, his arse spasming around John. Each contraction jolts through John’s body. His balls draw tight, stomach muscles clenching, and John comes so hard his vision fills with sparkling darkness.

Mary lets them recover a moment, Sherlock limp in the ropes and John almost grateful for the restraints steadying his shaky legs. Then Mary picks up the gun. She holds it loosely, muzzle pointed downwards. She releases John first, making sure to stay out of his reach.

John turns away from her and tries to figure out Sherlock’s ropes.

“Knife,” Mary says, and John sees that she’s left it on the chair. He cuts Sherlock down and carries him to the couch where he can make quick work of the rest. Sherlock’s skin feels clammy and he looks pale. His belly is sticky with come. Sherlock begins to shake.

“Shh,” John says. “I’ve got you.” He wipes Sherlock’s belly with the blanket on the couch and then wraps it around his shoulders. John hesitates a moment and then tucks Sherlock into his arms. John feels a bit shaky, too. His body feels well-shagged but he focuses on the tiredness of his muscles rather than the endorphins trying to tell him he should feel good about it. They sit tucked together on the couch, bodies slowly calming, while Mary watches silently from her chair across the room.

At last the tremors quiet. Sherlock’s head rests on John’s shoulder. His eyes are still closed. It seems to John that the world has shifted on its axis, and he feels disoriented. He looks at Mary. She hasn’t moved but he can no longer see the gun.

“You always want things to be black and white,” she says into the stillness. “The Perfect Friendship, with no ambiguity about your feelings. The Perfect Wife, with no room for the danger you wish you didn’t enjoy. But that’s not what you got. You got Sherlock Holmes, and me.”

Mary leans forward. “It wasn’t a lie,” she says. “How I was with you. I didn’t tell you about my past, but I never lied about my present. What I wanted. How I felt.” She clasps her fingers together in her lap, squeezes them.

“You’ve seen who I am, now. I’m just like you, John: healer and killer both. I’m not afraid of my darkness, though. Not if I can let it out like this.” She gestures to the pile of cut ropes. “With someone who really wants it.”

Sherlock stirs at that, sits up.

“How did you know?” he asks.

Mary shrugs. “I’ve been around; I know what to look for. And I know that you’d rather John wield the lash. Hope I did right by you.”

John tightens his arm around Sherlock. “How can you possibly—“ he begins, but Sherlock puts his hand on John’s thigh. John closes his mouth.

“I knew John wouldn’t want to,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t know that you could.”

Mary smiles sadly. “Does it change anything?”

Sherlock frowns. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe.”

Mary nods. She stands. “Sherlock isn’t the only one who loves you, John. Or the only one who can thrill you. Think about it.”

John lets her leave. Sherlock puts his head back on John’s shoulder.

“And this?” Sherlock asks, his voice low. “Does it change anything?”

John is silent a long time.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “Maybe.”


End file.
